Mrs. Sowler actually took it on herself to
order her own supper!
"Nothing cold to eat or drink for me," she said. "Morning and night,
waking and sleeping, I can't keep myself warm. See for yourself, Jervy,
how I've lost flesh since you first knew me! A steak, broiling hot from
the gridiron, and gin-and-water, hotter still--that's the supper for
me."
"Take the order, waiter," said Jervy, resignedly; "and let us see the
private room."
The tavern was of the old-fashioned English sort, which scorns to learn
a lesson of brightness and elegance from France. The private room can
only be described as a museum for the exhibition of dirt in all its
varieties. Behind the bars of the rusty little grate a dying fire was
drawing its last breath. Mrs. Sowler clamoured for wood and coals;
revived the fire with her own hands; and seated herself shivering as
close to the fender as the chair would go. After a while, the composing
effect of the heat began to make its influence felt: the head of the
half-starved wretch sank: a species of stupor overcame her--half
faintness, and half sleep.
Phoebe and her sweetheart sat together, waiting the appearance of the
supper, on a little sofa at the other end of the room.
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